


Many Moons

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-12
Updated: 2004-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hutch is almost killed, Starsky gets drunk and changes the nature of their relationship. Now Starsky wants to forget, and Hutch cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Moons

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Taya, who has Opinions about our big, blond, butch beauty.  
> Inspired in part by Bliss's S&H vid "Hold On."
> 
> Many thanks to Padawan Ula Luva, beta-beyond-amazing, and to Bliss for add'l beta and canon help.

### Part 1

Hutch winced as the needle tugged at the numbed skin on his scalp.

"Just a few more, Detective," said the young doctor standing above him. Hutch felt/heard the odd sensation/sound of the thread squeaking through the skin as the suture was pulled tight. Just outside the curtain he saw the silhouette of his nervous partner as he bounced on his toes, waiting for Hutch to be treated.

They both hated hospitals—Starsky more than he, since the poisoning incident that had nearly killed him. He'd spent too many hours being poked and prodded while in pain, with the promise of his demise hanging over him—over them both, for Hutch was nearly as traumatized by the experience of almost losing his best friend. _He means too much to me, now. Don't know why it is, but I need him like breathing,_ Hutch mused. Maybe it was the same for Starsky, and that's why he had been bouncing around like a pachinko ball ever since he'd brought him here.

Hutch had almost died tonight.

It was his first gunshot wound, and he was helpless to stop his thoughts from circling back to the moment over and over. He heard the choked warning from Starsky, felt the flash of pain as he fell, heard the report of the gun a split second later and knew the sudden fear that this could be it for him. He winced again, but not from the doctor's ministrations.

"That's it," the doctor said as she trimmed the last of the sutures. "I'll just put on a dressing. You realize you are extremely lucky, Detective..."

Hutch nodded, then regretted it; his head was starting to feel like a balloon inflated to the point of bursting.

The doctor continued, "Keep the wound dry--no washing your hair for a week. Keep the area clean and apply this antibiotic ointment daily." She handed Hutch a small tube, "And take it easy for a couple of days. There's no sign of concussion, but remember, the brain is a very delicate piece of equipment." She smiled wryly.

Hutch caught himself before he could nod again. The doctor eyed him, asking sympathetically, "Headache pretty bad?"

"It's all right."

She ignored his quick denial, "Well, I can't give you anything narcotic-based, and I want you to stay away from aspirin, but you can take some acetaminophen...Tylenol," she clarified.

"I've got some of that. Thanks, Doc."

"No problem, Detective...Hutchinson."

"Call me 'Ken,'" he said with a smile, flirting a little with her, and she nodded and grinned.

"See you in a week to get those sutures out." She left him then, and Starsky bounded in immediately, his face a study in anxiety.

"It's all right, Starsk, everything's fine," Hutch reassured his friend.

Starsky moved up for a closer look. Hutch's head was swollen beneath the dressing, a dark bruise starting just below the hairline. It had been a very close thing. Starsky's hands were cold as he replayed the sequence of events. In his mind's eye he was rounding the corner of the corridor to the scene just as the perpetrator, Kingsbury, was drawing a bead on his partner. Starsky had time only to shout Hutch's name, the blond turning just as the man fired. Starsky saw that bright head as it was flung backward by the force of impact, and then Hutch went down. The perp turned toward Starsky and, almost absentmindedly, Starsky lifted his Beretta and delivered the kill shot, his eyes fixed on the golden hair covered in blood.

The blood was still there, clumping the strands over the white bandage. "You let that asshole get the drop on you," he accused, his lingering fear making his voice curt and angry-sounding. Hutch's head snapped up, and Starsky saw a brief flicker of pain before Hutch clamped down on his expression.

"I know. I'm sorry," he apologized softly, his eyes closing as his head sagged.

Starsky was unyielding, "Coulda got yourself killed," he said gruffly, still staring down at the down-turned head. He lifted a hand to touch, dropping it again before he could complete the motion. "Let's get outta here," he said shortly, striding to the exit. Hutch pushed himself up and followed.

~ ~ ~

It was a bright night, the moon hanging full and serene over Hutch's little house by the canals. Starsky pulled up the Torino and hurried to open the passenger door. On the ride over his brief glances at his partner's pale, pain-drawn face had transmuted his fear and anger to concern. He watched as Hutch slowly eased himself out of the passenger seat, keeping his movements as smooth as possible to avoid jarring his tender head. Together they went slowly up the steps to Hutch's refuge.

Inside, Hutch made his way to the bathroom, emerging shortly with a bottle of Tylenol. Starsky quickly went to get him a glass of water, bringing it to him where he had settled half-upright on his couch. He thanked Starsky with a glance and swallowed down the pills.

They hadn't exchanged many words on the trip home, both lost in thoughts of 'What if?' Starsky felt a pull to say the words, to try to express the fear that still lurked heavily. He looked down at Hutch and noted the blond's exhausted, strained expression.

"You should get to bed, babe," he said gently.

"Don't want to, just yet," Hutch replied softly. Starsky shook his head and went to the fridge to grab a beer; changing his mind, he veered toward the cabinet where Hutch kept the seldom-used hard stuff. He grabbed a bottle and a glass and returned to the living room where Hutch was sprawled, now rubbing between his brows with his long fingers. Starsky pulled up a chair to sit by him.

"Head bad?" Starsky asked quietly.

"Not too bad," Hutch responded.

Starsky snorted and poured himself a generous tumbler of whiskey. Hutch looked up at the unexpected sound.

"You thinking of putting all that away tonight?" he asked with some surprise.

"With that bump on your noggin, I'm drinking for two," Starsky replied sardonically. He took a big gulp of the whiskey, feeling it burn its way down to loosen the cold knot of fear still riding in his gut.

Hutch grunted and shifted so he could rest his cheek on the arm of the sofa, his face turned toward Starsky. "I'm sorry," he said for the second time.

"Doesn't make a difference." Starsky's voice was hoarse and angry again. "You almost bought it."

Hutch was taken aback. "So? Sometimes you just don't have the luck." He rolled his head away and scrubbed at his face a little. The Tylenol was helping a bit, having downgraded his headache from 'nausea-inducing' to merely 'intolerable.'

"'S different this time," his friend insisted.

"Different, how? Because it was a gun?"

"No." Voice low.

Hutch looked at him, "What's going on here, Starsk?"

Starsky sighed and knocked back the last of his drink. A good four shots of whiskey downed in no time at all; Starsky, apparently, was looking to get tanked.

The answer was slow in coming. "It's different because this time...this time I had to watch. I saw it. I can't stop seeing it."

Hutch stared at his friend, then reached out a hand to rest it on Starsky's knee; Starsky immediately dropped his own to cover Hutch's, his fingers curling around Hutch's wrist. They sat for a moment in silent communication, then Starsky stirred to pour himself more whiskey. Hutch looked on in bemusement.

"You're going to feel like shit in the morning."

"Already feel like shit. Want to just...turn it off for a while, Hutch." Starsky leaned back and closed his eyes, but the memory was still there, fresh and vivid. Hutch falling, the blood bright on his head. Starsky running toward him past the perp, whose brain matter was splattered like a gruesome painting under his feet. Five yards from Hutch he had to stop, too terrified to draw nearer, a bleak wail of grief already growing in his chest. "No no no no no," he had moaned, then made those final steps. Hutch's blue eyes had been open, fixed on nothing, and the fear Starsky had felt at that moment threatened to drop him where he stood. "Hutch," he had choked, bending down, finally, to touch his friend.

And Hutch had blinked.

"Alive," Starsky whispered, and brought the whiskey glass again to his lips with a trembling hand. He looked over at Hutch for living proof. The blond lay relaxed, one arm still hanging from the edge of sofa where it had fallen from Starsky's knee. He was breathing deeply, slowly, almost asleep. _Better get him to bed or his back will be murder tomorrow._ Starsky's thoughts were sluggish from the alcohol, and it took him a long moment before he roused himself, getting unsteadily to his feet.

"C'mon, Blintz," he said wearily, leaning down to shake his partner. Hutch frowned in irritation before his eyes opened and he let Starsky draw him up. _The drunk leading the wounded,_ Starsky thought as they made their wobbly way up to the alcove. Starsky tried to help Hutch strip for bed, but in his inebriated state was more a hindrance than anything else. Finally, he managed to get Hutch's bloodstained clothing off, leaving it in a pile on the floor. Hutch pushed down his underwear, kicking it off to join the pile, and then Starsky held up the covers and Hutch gratefully sank down onto the bed and stretched out.

"G'nite, Blondie," Starsky said. Hutch yawned and nodded, his eyes already closed. But Starsky didn't move, continuing to look down at Hutch, swaying a bit on his feet and staring as if memorizing the living form; the tawny skin and strong muscles, the handsome face so stern when awake, but more open when asleep. Starsky shook his head and stumbled back down to the sofa, turning off the lamp before lying down. He closed his eyes, the room still spinning behind his lids, and he let sleep take him.

~ ~ ~

Hutch awoke, startled by the sound of his name. He listened, but heard nothing else.  He was just falling back asleep when some sense alerted him. He rolled over and made out the dark form of Starsky standing by his bed, the ghostly imprint of his white underwear visible in the moonlight.

"Starsk?" Hutch's voice was rough with sleep.

"Hutch...had a bad dream..." Starsky still sounded smashed, his words running against each other; he also sounded shaken. "Can I...sleep here?"

"Sure, buddy," Hutch yawned and scooted over in the bed, rolling onto his side away from Starsky, hoping to forestall further conversation. The abrupt wake-up had revived his headache, and he wanted it to calm down again or he'd be up all night with it.

Hutch felt the mattress dip as Starsky slid under the covers behind him. He sighed and relaxed against the pillow. He was concentrating on feeling the throbbing in his head start to ease when he felt Starsky put his hands on his bare shoulders and rest his forehead between Hutch's shoulder blades.

"Alive," Starsky whispered.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here," Hutch whispered back, sleepily, "Go to sleep now, huh?

"Was so scared, Hutch. Thought he got you. Thought I'd die, too, if he did."

Hutch's heart clenched, and he reached across his chest to put his hand over Starsky's. To hell with his head.  He started to roll over to face his friend and try to comfort him, but Starsky's strong hands on his shoulders stopped him from turning. Starsky moved closer behind him and slid one hand around his shoulder to let it rest just above Hutch's heart, his palm flat and cool against the skin there. Hutch felt his heart beat against Starsky's hand.

"Alive," Starsky said again, obviously comforted by the even pulse.

"Yeah, buddy, it's okay," Hutch said soothingly, his voice quiet. He was touched by his partner's rare vulnerability. "I'm with you, babe." He felt Starsky nod his head where it still rested against Hutch's back.

Then Starsky lifted it and shifted again, starting to move his hand in lazy circles on Hutch's chest. _This is getting a little weird,_ thought Hutch, and put his palm over Starsky's hand.

"C'mon, Gordo, let's get some sleep, huh?"

Starsky made a sound of negation, and Hutch felt his warm breath on the back of his neck, the fine hairs there lifting at the sensation. Starsky moved his hand under Hutch's, widening the stroking circles to smooth over his abdomen.

"Warm and alive," Starsky breathed again, and this time Hutch shivered, feeling a vague fear of the direction this was taking. _Trouble,_ he thought, disturbed. The smooth movements were more than a little sensual. He swallowed and focused.

"Buddy, that's, uh...I'm naked, here, okay?" he said, a bit frantically as Starsky's hand dipped lower, caressing his belly.

"So warm and hard and strong, did I ever tell ya, Hutch?" Starsky's illogical reply was husky. Hutch felt cold sink through his body, only to transform into heat that bloomed when it reached his groin. He tried to pull away but the soft touch turned firm, holding him in place.

"Don't go, Hutch," Starsky pleaded.

"Starsky," Hutch argued, somewhat shakily, "You're drunk, buddy. Too much whiskey after a bad scene. You're acting crazy, here." He ignored his quickly growing erection and grabbed Starsky's wrist, lifting his hand from its risky location. Starsky responded by shifting closer, his groin now flush against Hutch's buttocks. Hutch started when he felt a hardness there push needily against him.

"You," Starsky muttered, his voice slurred from the effects of the alcohol, "you make me crazy. Almos' dying on me. But you're alive. Want to feel you alive, Hutch." He twisted his wrist, neatly freeing it from Hutch's hold, and then reached below the sheet to close his fingers around Hutch's hardening cock.

Hutch moaned, his voice holding a note of despair. "Don't do this, babe," he begged thickly, "you'll hate yourself." _You'll hate me._

"Won't. Wanna touch you. Feel you alive, Hutch. So warm..." and Starsky started stroking him.

Hutch's mind reeled, the warmth in his groin suddenly leaping into white heat; he moaned as Starsky caressed him firmly while rocking his hips. Starsky's cock was trying to push through the flimsy material of his underwear, seeking the warm cleft of Hutch's ass.

"No," Hutch gasped, wanting to stop this dark insanity, but his hips started moving of their own accord, pumping his shaft into Starsky's strong hand. _God, so good. Why?_ It was bad, so very bad to be doing this, enjoying this, his best friend stroking him senseless. His headache was gone, chased out by the pleasure racking him with each thrust as he pushed, and then pulled back to feel that hardness against him.

"Yes," he now moaned, as the sensation started to peak within him, and he felt Starsky panting against his neck.

"That's it, babe, feel it? God, Hutch," Starsky started pumping faster, and Hutch looked down to see that dark hand moving over his cock, and it sent him over. His hips stilled and he watched himself come all over Starsky's fist; the pleasure was exquisite, and he groaned low, gasping when Starsky slid his sticky hand up to tease the slit with his thumb. Hutch's hips jerked twice as he pulsed some more, and then sagged back down against his pillow.

"Jesus," he said softly. He felt torn apart and then stitched back together with gossamer; his limbs were floating away from his body. He drifted for a moment, not wanting to think, afraid of the aftermath. Then Starsky released his cock and withdrew his hand. Hutch waited, holding his breath.

Starsky pushed on his shoulder, and in a startling moment Hutch found himself on his belly. _Oh, God,_ he started to raise himself up and then halted abruptly when he felt Starsky's hand on his ass—Starsky's slick, semen-coated hand, which slid dangerously between Hutch's cheeks. Hutch froze, alarmed. _He's going to..._ his breath caught as Starsky fingers gently slicked Hutch's own come in the cleft of his buttocks, stroking him intimately. Hutch tried to gather his panicked thoughts, but though his mind was whirling, his body was limp, unresisting, accepting the attentions. Maybe he didn't want to fight this. Maybe he...wanted this.

Hutch flushed with mortification and something else, a trembling eagerness to let Starsky do it, let him take him. And then he realized the thought that was hiding under the surface panic—that this might be his only chance to... _To have Starsky fuck me,_ he completed the thought with a shudder.

Hutch felt Starsky pull back his hand, and then he was there, looming over his back, his powerful thighs straddling Hutch's legs. Starsky lowered himself and his thick, hard cock pressed between Hutch's buttocks; but not, as Hutch had been anticipating, to push inside him. Instead, he slid between, his cock nestling there in the warmth, and Starsky pressed his cheeks together, forcing them around his hard length.

Starsky groaned, "Oh God, Hutch, you feel so good." He started pushing his slick cock up and down, the head and shaft sliding against Hutch's asshole on every thrust. Hutch blushed at the feeling, dropping his face into the pillow as Starsky used him for his pleasure. He couldn't believe it was Starsky back there, pumping against him, squeezing his ass and grunting as his thick shaft moved between his buttocks. Hutch was trying not to think about what was occurring; trying even more desperately not to imagine what would happen tomorrow, when Starsky was sober and this event would lay indelibly printed on the pages of their history. A black mark, or a red letter? _Don't think about it, just feel._ Feel that smooth, hard cock and the love that prompted this act—the love and the anxiety Starsky felt for Hutch's safety.

Starsky was quickening the pace, moaning deep and repeating his name. Hutch wanted to participate, somehow, and he consciously flexed the muscles of his ass. Starsky gasped and cried out, pumping a few times rapidly before his hips stopped and he released his seed in the furrow of Hutch's buttocks. He made a couple more shallow thrusts, his voice high with pleasure as he moaned, "Hutch..." Then he slumped down to lie on top of Hutch, his cock still embedded between Hutch's cheeks.

For a long moment Hutch lay in the silence, not daring to breathe or think, just enjoying the feeling of Starsky's warm body covering his own. He felt Starsky stir and lightly kiss the back of his neck; then he grew still. Hutch shifted uncomfortably. His cock was semi-erect again, trapped awkwardly between his groin and the mattress, and Starsky was no light-weight.

"Starsky?" There was no response. _Passed out cold._ Hutch could almost laugh. Here he had the perfect thing to twig Starsky about, but only at his own expense. He could hear it now, _'Hey Starsk, do you always fall right asleep after humping your partner's ass?'_

Suddenly the enormity of what had just occurred made his throbbing head swim. He had to get away, get out. Hutch pushed himself up, tilting Starsky off his back. His partner slid off like a sack of potatoes, completely limp. Hutch got up and went to the bathroom, cold wetness dripping down his rear and onto his thighs as he walked. He couldn't get into the shower fast enough.

Carefully avoiding his head wound, Hutch rinsed off, soaping his genitals roughly as if to punish his cock for its betrayal. _Trouble_ he thought again. How much trouble they had bought remained to be seen, but considering Starsky's Brooklyn-bred machismo, he wasn't sure his friend was going to handle this very well. Considering how open-minded he had always thought himself, he was ashamed to realize he wasn't taking it very well, either. But underneath his unease and knee-jerk aversion to what had occurred, he was honest enough to recognize a simple truth. _I liked it. Liked having him touch me that way. Liked giving him pleasure for once, when it seems most of the time all I give him is grief. It felt good._

He finished his shower and pulled his robe on, not bothering to dry off, and went into the living room to huddle on the couch. The moonlight was bright enough that he could just make out the label on the whiskey bottle sitting before him on the coffee table. _You got us in a real fix this time, J.D._ Hutch reached forward to snag the Jack Daniels and take a swig. Concussion be damned, it felt pretty good going down.

Starsky had put away a fair amount tonight; Hutch had rarely seen him so pie-eyed. The whiskey warmed his belly, and the sense memory of Starsky thrusting against him intruded on his thoughts.  He felt himself flush again. _I would have let him. I wanted him to. Where the hell is this coming from?_ He gave up on thinking and stretched out on the couch, reaching down to soothe his erection, which was throbbing anew, keeping time with the pulse in his skull. Hutch looked over at the bed where Starsky lay sprawled like he owned it.  He wasn't sleeping so much as passed out. _He might not even remember what happened._ If he remembered, he might never forgive Hutch for not stopping him while he could. And if he didn't remember...

 _I might never forgive him. _

~ ~ ~

The bright moon called it a night and the sun took over, glancing through the unshaded window to fall full on Hutch's face where he lay awkwardly asleep on the sofa. Hutch stirred and pushed his head underneath the couch cushion, blindly seeking to remain unconscious.

The sun continued its leisurely inspection of the bungalow, creeping up Starsky's legs and shining on his nude rear. He groaned and twitched, the unaccustomed warmth rousing him from his comatose state. He sat up and regretted it immediately.  His head was a bass drum and apparently the musical selection for today was Led Zeppelin.

He pried open his gluey eyelids and surveyed the situation. He was in Hutch's bed. That, in itself, was not that unusual, although, considering his partner had been wounded last night, it sure was a little rude. He looked over foggily at the Blintz, whose injured head was buried under a sofa cushion. _He's some kind of friend,_ Starsky thought affectionately as he scooted over to the edge of the bed to stand up.

That's when he discovered his briefs were tangled around his thighs. _What the hell? Must've had one hell of a dream,_ he mused as he pulled up his underwear. He was momentarily embarrassed about apparently having had a wet dream in his partner's bed. _Gonna have to change his sheets._ But his first priority was coffee. Then, aspirin. No—aspirin, then coffee, and then a hot shower. He groaned as he padded over to the bathroom to dig up item number one, his stomach protesting the sudden movement. Immediately he had a new priority as he rushed to the john to say goodbye to the contents of his stomach. _J.D., you are purely evil. No more, ever,_ he swore to himself as he hunched over the bowl.

~ ~ ~

Hutch awoke to the delightful sound of Starsky puking in the bathroom. _Lovely._ His head was pounding less, at least, and he got up gingerly to make some coffee. He was back on the sofa sipping his first cup when Starsky emerged looking worse for wear but sporting a clean shave.

"Mornin'," he grumbled.

Hutch eyed him over the rim of his cup, waiting for further clues to his state of mind. "Coffee's ready," he said in reply. Starsky stumbled over to the kitchen, obviously still feeling the effects of his binge. He returned shortly with a cup of his own and settled down in the chair opposite.

"How's the head?" he asked.

"Better than yours, I'm guessing," Hutch answered, tilting his own in question.

"Yeah, I sure tied one on. What'dya let me do that for?" he asked facetiously.

Hutch grunted. He was pretty sure Starsky wouldn't be acting so naturally had he remembered the events of the night before. He shook his head unconsciously, then winced and reached for the Tylenol.

"Looks like your head ain't so fine after all," Starsky commented.

"Maybe it's not so fond of bullets," Hutch quipped, then immediately felt guilty at the stricken look on Starsky's face. He had violated the 'morning after' rule—let the past stay past. Without an unshakable belief in your and your partner's immortality, you couldn't go on after close calls like last night's. Anything that threatened that belief could make it impossible to go out there every day and face the streets. Hutch winced apologetically at Starsky for his gaffe, and Starsky made a dismissive gesture. They sank back into silence, both nursing their aching heads.

Hutch kept one eye on his partner while they sat. He still could see no sign that Starsky remembered last night... _Last night, when he touched me._ Hutch flushed unexpectedly and tamped down the reaction quickly.

Starsky looked up from contemplating his cup, obviously feeling Hutch's eyes on him. "What's with the eyeballing, Hutch? Is my hair lookin' funny?"

Hutch sighed and shook his head, then grimaced. "I'm just thinking...you were pretty stinko last night, Starsk..." _What the hell am I doing? Do I want him to remember?_ Yes, he did, he realized. He couldn't live with being the only one holding the memory. They had to share it, like everything else in their partnership. He continued, "In fact, you were acting a little...well, you..." Hutch stopped, helplessly. _You grabbed my cock._ Bald words were the only ones that would come to his mind. He shut his mouth.

Fortunately, his skin spoke for him. Starsky observed him turning bright red, and his face changed subtly, going quite still. It was like watching a man turn into a mannequin. The silence stretched between them like a rubber band. Then Starsky said, "Huh." His face was completely unreadable.

Hutch waited for him to say more—perhaps accuse him, remonstrate with him for not stopping the madness—but nothing was forthcoming. Starsky just sat there, coffee cup raised halfway to his lips, staring at a point somewhere near Hutch's left elbow. Then he completed the motion mechanically, taking a sip of his coffee before setting down his cup.

"Starsk...." Hutch finally broke the silence.

"We'd better get down to the station, fill out our reports," Starsky said evenly, still avoiding his eye, "Dobey said once we do that we're square for the day."

Hutch felt something shrivel inside him in that moment; he was amazed to identify it posthumously as hope. Just a sliver of hope, he wasn't even sure of what. For his own peace of mind, he didn't dare explore it further.

"Yeah," he replied heavily, and had to clear his throat before continuing, "I took my shower last night, you go ahead." Starsky nodded and rose, leaving Hutch to get dressed. He pulled on his clothes, his mind carefully blank. Inside him, the little dead spot cried out like a lost soul.

With cruel hands, he buried it deep.

~ ~ ~

"You goddamned fool, what were you thinking?" Starsky swore as he peeled the Torino away from the scene to take them back to Metro. Hutch grimaced to himself and hung on to the dash, his body still buzzing on an adrenaline high. He saw again the gun shaking in the trembling hand of the perp and he felt his gut drop anew. His heart was pounding in his chest as he turned to look at his partner's profile.

Starsky was pale, his dark eye glittering as he stared at the road, both hands clenched tight on the wheel. He bit out, "Answer me, dammit."

Hutch swallowed but didn't trust his voice to reply. He was jolted when Starsky suddenly pulled to the curb, the Torino's tires protesting as he brought the car to a shuddering halt. He turned on his partner and Hutch involuntarily shifted back toward the door at the gleaming menace in those dark blue eyes

Starsky took in the defensive movement and breathed deep, his expression easing. "Hutch," he said, a little more quietly, "Tell me."

Oh, but this gentleness was even more dangerous—Hutch knew that, well enough, and he stiffened warily. "What, you think you're the only hotdog in this outfit, partner?"

Starsky's face hardened, "Fuck you, I do not take unnecessary risks—"

"My ass," Hutch snorted derisively, "just last week at old man Peterson's—"

"That was different!" Starsky overrode him, "The kid was no more than 16."

"Just as old as Lonnie when he tried to shoot you in the alley," Hutch reminded him cuttingly. There was a moment of silence as both men breathed heavily. Hutch watched with dread as Starsky forcibly calmed himself. He had to keep Starsky on the defensive; Hutch's uncharacteristic behavior was a red flag too obvious to ignore. He, himself, was at a loss to understand what had motivated him; he only knew it had something to do with the confusing emotions that had plagued him since that night three weeks ago when Starsky's touch had changed everything for him.

Hutch spoke quickly, "Two months ago you climbed that fucking radio tower after that lunatic—"

"It's no good, Hutch," Starsky said quietly, "I ain't falling for it."

Coldness sank in Hutch's belly. The man knew him too well.

"I want to know what the hell you were thinking. That guy was on a hair-trigger. This was no sure thing, by any stretch."

Hutch sighed and ran his hand over his face. "I had a handle on it," he said evasively, startling when Starsky slammed his hand down on the dashboard with a bang.

"Cut the shit! Jesus, Hutch, do you think I'm a fucking idiot?" Starsky leaned forward and tapped his index finger against Hutch's chest. "You jumped in there like bullets would just bounce offa you. But they don't," Starsky took a quick breath as if it hurt. "You were trying to prove something, but I can't figure out what."

"Can't you?" Hutch shot back, and then bit his hasty tongue. _Shit._

Starsky's eyes narrowed as he took in this new clue. "Prove something...to yourself, or to me...?" He looked thoughtful as he observed the tightening of Hutch's lips.

Hutch looked away, "Let's just drop it, shall we?" His formal tone was calculated to put an end to the discussion, fast.

But his partner was nothing if not dogged. "We ain't dropping nothing, Blondie," he said decisively. "We're gonna grab a six-pack and hash this out. But first we have to get our reports out of the way."

Starsky shifted the car back into gear, adding as he pulled back into traffic, "Then, we talk."

Hutch groaned inwardly, his stomach doing flip-flops. Silently, he prayed for some natural disaster to strike between quitting time and the ride home. An earthquake would be good, or maybe a nice tidal wave. _I should only be so lucky._

~ ~ ~

"Hutchinson! Get in here," Dobey's roar was crankier than usual. Hutch looked up from typing his report. Out of habit he flung his partner a rueful look and was taken aback at the anger still smoldering in Starsky's gaze. He sighed and got to his feet, grabbing a cup of coffee on his way to the Captain's office.

"Siddown," Dobey gestured curtly, and Hutch slouched down into his usual seat.

"What's on your mind, Cap'?" Hutch tried to appear unconcerned.

"That's what I was gonna ask _you_ , Hutchinson. I don't like what I've been hearing about what went down today. I want the story from you, straight."

"It's all in my report, Cap'" Hutch began.

"Straight from your lips, man. Now." Dobey growled.

Hutch masked his expression, taking a sip of his coffee to buy himself a moment.

"Starsky and I were first on the scene at the 211. It was obvious the guy was really strung out..." Hutch gave Dobey the set-up, painting the picture of the jittery perp, the hostage clerk, and the tense moments as Hutch stepped into the line of fire to convince the junkie to back down. "I could tell the guy was wanting a way out," Hutch shrugged as if that should suffice to explain his actions.

"How?" Dobey barked, "How could you tell he wouldn't just up and blow you away, and the hostage, too?"

"I can't explain it, Cap'n," Hutch said slowly, realizing even as he said it that it was the stark truth. "I just knew he wouldn't pull that trigger." _And for a split second, I almost didn't care,_ he added silently to himself, suppressing a shiver.

Dobey cleared his throat, "I guess I know what that's like; sometimes you just have to rely on your instincts. I haven't noticed them steering you wrong too often in the past. But, son," Dobey's voice gentled somewhat, "even the best instincts in the world can't protect you from chance. If some noise had startled the guy, or if the hostage had made an unexpected move..." Dobey wiped his forehead. "Well, you're not expendable, Hutchinson. I want you to be a little more cautious."

Hutch gave a silent sigh of relief. "I hear you Cap'. Is that all?"

"Yeah, get back to that report. I want it finished and on my desk before you go." His brusque, cranky Captain was back in a heartbeat.

Hutch nodded his leave and went back to finish his report, ignoring his partner's continuing glances. Christ, he wished he had driven himself in today. All he wanted was to go home, take a hot shower and try to sort out the confusion in his head. But there was no way Starsky would let him escape the promised showdown. _Dog with a bone, that's my pal._ Sometimes having a pit bull for a partner could be a real hassle.

~ ~ ~

Sure enough, Hutch was no sooner out of the passenger seat than Starsky was around the hood and following him up the steps to his place, a hastily-acquired six-pack dangling from his left hand. Hutch was fiddling with his keys when he felt Starsky bump up behind him.

"Back off, Starsky, I'm getting it," he snarled. Starsky looked a little surprised and retreated a few steps. Hutch got the door open at last, shrugging out of his jacket and turning on the lights as Starsky crowded by him to deposit the six-pack on the table and drop down into the easy chair. He settled in as if he planned to mesh with the furniture.

Hutch sighed and turned away, unsnapping his holster and hanging the heavy gun on his closet door. He closed it and grabbed a beer before letting himself down onto his sofa. Popping the top, he glanced at his partner before he took a swig.

"Well?" Starsky raised his eyebrows in illustration.

"Well, what? This is your show, amigo." Hutch planned to volunteer nothing.

"Well, why did you act like an idiotic son of a bitch today?" Starsky asked impatiently.

"I told you, pal, it was no big deal. I knew the guy wasn't going to shoot."

"Christ, I'm sick of your bullshit, Hutch!" Starsky calmed himself, and then said musingly, "You never did answer me when I asked you what you were trying to prove."

Hutch's jaw set and he took a sip of his beer. "Go home, Starsk," was his only response.

Starsky was puzzled and more than a little perturbed. "You asked me in the car, 'Don't you know?' Is it something I said, Hutch, to make you think I thought...or something I did?" He saw Hutch swallow hard.

"What'd I do?" Starsky asked, almost to himself since he knew the stubborn blond wouldn't be answering. The past few weeks had been pretty uneventful—couple of dopey cases, nothing spectacular. They were taking it easy for while since Hutch's head shot... _Christ, I'm stupid._ In the history of partnerships, he had to be the most insensitive asshole, ever.

He realized he was staring at Hutch in some surprise, and his understanding must have shown on his face because Hutch turned away and sipped his beer, too deliberately. Starsky regarded his friend, uncertain how to broach the subject. They hadn't said a word to each other about the gunshot wound or about the night that followed. Starsky had shut him out on the second subject, and they hadn't spent a lot of time talking about the first.

"Hutch, you know, we never really talked about when you got hit."

Hutch shot him an unreadable glance. His Nordic features couldn't be any firmer if he'd stuffed his face in the icebox. "Nothing to talk about," he said, stiffly, "what's past is past. You know that."

"It ain't past if it ain't, Hutch, not if it's...affecting us." Starsky looked at him pleadingly but Hutch wasn't budging. "Or is it...what happened, after?"

Hutch blinked. _Ahh, that's it, huh?_ Starsky hardly remembered what had happened; had been trying not to remember, truth be told, because it brought up so many uneasy feelings. But he knew he had instigated the whole thing. "Hutch, you gotta know, that was all my fault. I mean, it don't say nothing about you..." He watched Hutch clench his jaw. "Honest, Hutch, I'm sorry. I never said that, I guess. But I am. I was just so damned drunk...."

Hutch listened to his partner's painful, stumbling words and wanted to weep. Was Starsky betraying his own prejudices, or what he thought Hutch's were? It didn't matter. Let him think whatever, but the deeper truth would remain hidden, that was what counted. It was an ugly secret he was only just realizing himself. _You don't get it, buddy. I wasn't trying to prove myself. I was trying to prove that you...want me._ Sick, he knew it; his subconscious mind was a twisted little bastard.

He sighed and gently interrupted his partner's faltering reassurances, "Okay, Starsk. I get it. You don't have to go on...."

But Starsky wasn't finished, "Hutch, You think I'd have you as a partner if I didn't already think you were the ballsiest damned guy out there?"

Hutch closed his eyes and fought the urge to laugh bitterly. "Yeah, okay, buddy. Look, can you go, now? I really want to be alone to...think about things." He realized he had his arm curled around his stomach as if to hold in his guts, like he had taken a mortal wound. _Melodrama, anyone?_ He forced himself to relax and stood to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I get it, really, Starsk. I already promised Dobey I'd be more careful. Let's just call it a night, huh?"

Starsky's gaze pierced him, and he momentarily feared again for his secret. But Starsky was apparently too wrapped in his own guilt to perceive it. "Yeah, okay, Hutch. I'm...sorry," he said again. Hutch nodded and walked him to the door.

"Pick you up tomorrow?"

"You do that, Starsk. And don't be late, I'm already in enough hot water."

"You got it, pal." Starsky seemed relieved as he turned and ran down the steps.

Hutch closed the door behind him and leaned his forehead against the cool wood. _Stupid, stupid._ He banged his head gently against the door a couple of times in self-punishment. He had thought he had safely buried all those strange new feelings that had been awoken that night three weeks ago, but obviously he was dangerously mistaken. Tonight he had almost gotten himself killed by an unhinged junkie just to capture his friend's attention. _Like a little kid crying for the moon._

Well, no more. He'd just need to find a new way to deal. One that didn't involve endangering either himself or Starsky. He would have to be more vigilant about keeping this shit buried, regardless of the cost. Starsky was worth it. The partnership, the friendship, was worth anything and everything.

 _I'd give up my life for him. I should be able to give up one hopeless dream._

~ ~ ~

 

### Part 2

 

Hutch was drunk. Powerfully, ponderously, humorously drunk. Starsky was propping him up at the door to his cottage while simultaneously trying to fumble Hutch's key into the lock. Considering Starsky was suffering from a bullet burn on his left arm, to boot, it was taking him some serious effort to get the damned door open.

"Jesus, Hutch, would ya try to help out, here?"

Hutch just laughed low and leaned harder against Starsky. "Did ya see the moon tonight, Starsk? Feels like you could just reach up and grab it, it's so close..." Hutch tilted his head up to the moonlight. "Reminds me of that story, remember the one? About the Princess who was sick, and would only get better if someone brought her the moon on a chain..." Hutch suddenly swayed the other way and Starsky grabbed at him frantically. At that moment, the door swung open and they both tilted backward in surprise, toppling to the floor inside the apartment.

"Oops," Hutch grinned, while Starsky tried to untangle their limbs. He gave up after a bit and settled for shoving the door closed. He looked down at his wasted partner.

Hutch reached up and drifted a hand over the side of Starsky's face, then dropped it to his chest to rest there, right above his partner's heart.

"'Nother close one, Starsk," Hutch wasn't laughing anymore. His eyes looked haunted. "How many lives we got left, you think?"

"Aw, Hutch. It wasn't such a close thing. I didn't even need stitches this time," he replied, lifting his arm to demonstrate. "That's 'cause I got you at my back, you know? Best partner a guy could have." Starsky was a bit embarrassed, and kind of glad Hutch was drunk. Hopefully he wouldn't remember Starsky getting soapy on him.

Hutch didn't respond in words, but his eyes seemed to pull at Starsky's. Abruptly, he sat up so that they were face-to-face, noses almost touching. "Don't have to thank me; you're everything to me, Starsk. You know that, right?"

Starsky shifted back a little, "Yeah, sure, Hutch. You don't gotta tell me that."

"Sometimes I wonder where you end, and I begin," Hutch puzzled drunkenly. Starsky smiled in recognition and Hutch's lids dropped, the gleaming blue half-hidden. He leaned forward and before Starsky could react, placed his lips gently against Starsky's.

Starsky reeled in shock; it was... nice. More than nice, he admitted to himself, feeling Hutch's soft lips on his...he panicked and pushed Hutch away firmly. "Don't, we can't..." He extricated himself and pushed to his feet, moving over to turn on the lamp. He looked back at his friend.

Hutch sat with his head bent, looking down at his empty palms as they lay on his lap. Haltingly, he continued his story. "The court mathematician tells the King that no one can bring the Princess the moon...it's 300,000 miles away and made of absbet-asbestos. And the King is afraid the Princess will die, because she's crying herself sick over the moon."

Starsky sighed and went over to him, leaning down to tug on his arm. "Up, Blintz. You're drunk as a skunk, and it's time for bed."

Hutch nodded and let himself be led to the bedroom, where Starsky stripped off his holster and his shoes and then pushed him to lie down. Hutch groaned and rolled over onto his side, away from Starsky.

On his way out, Starsky paused at the doorway. "What happened to the Princess, Hutch?" he asked, curious.

Hutch mumbled, "The Princess tells the Jester that the mathematician is wrong, it's really only a little smaller than her thumbnail, and made of gold. And the Jester promises he'll climb the tree outside her window, and when the moon is caught in its branches, he'll capture it and bring it to her."

"Big softie," Starsky smiled and turned off the lights, then let himself out.

Hutch lay in the quiet darkness. He shouldn't drink. He knew that. The alcohol made it hard to control the buried thing that was always trying to dig its way out into the light. Behind his eyes he could still see his friend's face after he pulled away from the kiss. Their first kiss. So brief but so sweet. Hutch moaned and yanked the edge of the bedcover over his head, willing himself to unconsciousness.

~ ~ ~

"Don't want to go back to the damned hospital," Hutch stated truculently, then hissed as the Torino went over a bump, jostling him. The pain that followed radiated out of his wounded chest like a shockwave, and he was momentarily rendered speechless.

"Yeah, I can see you're doing just great," Starsky mocked as he drove the car back to Memorial Hospital, from which Hutch had illicitly checked himself out a mere twenty-four hours earlier. Badly wounded, he had managed, with Dobey's help, to track down Starsky along with his temporary partner, Joan Meredith, where they were being held prisoner by a gang leader and the same kid that had shot Hutch.

"Not that I'm not grateful you didn't follow the doctor's orders in this case, Blondie, but it's time we got you back into that bed. You are looking more pale than a pale brother should be."

"Sound like Huggy," Hutch muttered. Starsky looked over at him to see his chin had sunk weakly to his chest. His shirt was only partially buttoned, and telltale spots of red were coming up through the white bandages a short distance above his heart. A precious distance. Starsky shivered, then shook his head and sped them to the hospital.

Inside, he hovered as they reset the torn stitches on the surgical incision, and then followed the gurney as they brought Hutch back to his private room and settled him in. After the nurses had left, Starsky sat on the side of the bed and took a good look at Hutch.

He had pretty much railroaded his partner into accepting a shot of painkillers, and the big blond was looking pretty spacey as he shifted in the bed, trying to get comfortable. Starsky put a soothing hand on the bare skin of his uninjured shoulder. He was glad for a chance to connect again with his friend.

"Hurts," Hutch muttered.

"Painkillers not working?" Starsky asked, surprised. He rubbed soothingly.

Hutch squirmed out from under the comforting hand. "Buried it—why won't it die, already?" he whispered. He looked up mournfully at Starsky, then away.

"Buried what, Hutch?"

Awareness seemed to return momentarily to the blue eyes, and he compressed his full lips. When Hutch didn't respond, Starsky looked closer at his friend's face. The mustache hid too much of his upper lip, making him hard to read.

"You should go in, finish your reports," Hutch said with his eyes half-closed. "Go back to your pretty new partner."

"She ain't my partner, Hutch, you know that."

Hutch sighed and his eyes closed. "She is. Heard you."

"Just a joke, Blintz. You're my partner. Only one I'll ever want."

But Hutch was out, head tilted, his blond hair covering the side of his face. Starsky reached out and brushed it back and away. "You're the only one, Hutch," he repeated softly.

~ ~ ~

Starsky rose to semi-awareness and pain, lots of it, like a thousand brands burning him from the inside of his chest. After a while he became aware of a familiar voice. Hutch. Hutch sounded desperate, strained; he was choking on his words as if they were shards in his throat.

"...Sorry for every cruel and stupid thing I've said, Starsk, and, God, the idiotic things I've done this past year. I don't understand why you didn't kick me out on my ass. I promise I'll be good, babe, please..." More choking, it almost sounded like sobs. Was Hutch crying? Hutch shouldn't cry, not when Starsky didn't have the use of his arms to hold him. Starsky tried to ask, but apparently he wasn't in control of that part of his body, either. Or any part. He floated, detached but anchored by the burning pain; it was relentless. He tuned back in to Hutch's voice as a welcome distraction.

"So much blood, babe, how could you bleed so much? I tried to hold it in but it slipped through my fingers and still there was more, so much...Starsk, I can't believe you didn't die then, in the parking lot, and now they're saying...but you can't die on me, buddy, you've got to keep fighting. Don't leave me...."

There was wetness on Starsky's hand, and he felt the warmth and recognized it as Hutch's tears. _Don't cry, baby blue, I'm here._ But Hutch couldn't hear him.

"All these years I know I've been hell to be with. I'm sorry I couldn't let it go. I'm sorry for every time I hurt you, pushed you away because you wouldn't just give me what I wanted. I'm such a selfish bastard. But I promise, Starsk, I swear it—I won't cry for the moon anymore, if you'll just not die. If you'll live, please. Live..."

The voice stopped, and Starsky felt himself moving inexplicably. Slowly, he realized that Hutch was shaking the bed with the force of his silent sobs. Starsky wanted desperately to open his eyes and offer his friend comfort. But the pain was growing again, this time into a monster with vicious, razor-edged teeth. It opened wide and snapped its jaws on his torso, and then the merciful darkness took him.

~ ~ ~

Days passed. Starsky had finally awoken to the incredulous joy of his partner and friends. After the celebrations had ended, Starsky got down to the serious business of healing. Hutch spent countless hours at his side, soothing, encouraging, offering comfort and a shoulder when the pain wore him down. But Hutch also had Gunther to put down, and when Starsky was alone with his thoughts, they turned more often than not to the partner and the barely-remembered words spoken in that choked whisper. Starsky couldn't recall all that he had said—mostly apologies for any and everything. The Blintz always did have an incredible capacity for guilt.

But that one phrase, 'Cry for the moon...' kept resounding in his head. Was Starsky the moon? Was Hutch trying to say that all these long years he had...wanted him? It wasn't possible. They had both had a hundred women in that time. Had fallen in love, always disastrously. But Hutch had mentioned the moon once years ago, when he was drunk, and told Starsky that kid's story about the sick Princess who wanted the moon on a chain. And then he had tried to kiss him. At the time, Starsky had chalked it up to the same fear that he felt every time Hutch had a close call. But, what if? What if, all this time, Hutch had been wanting him and hiding it because Starsky had closed the door on any other possibility?

All these years...? Starsky watched Hutch secretively over the next few months as he slowly recovered from his massive injuries. Hutch was jubilant, caring, and gentle with him in spite of Starsky's short temper and frustration at his own weakness. Hutch was there helping him get past it, even to the point of neglecting his own health, until Starsky goaded him into following the same regimen that was restoring his own. Through it all, Hutch was nothing less than devoted, and nothing more than a best friend. His sky blue eyes glowed constantly with gratitude that Starsky was with him, and alive.

For, technically, Starsky had died. He thought about that, a lot. He thought about it, and started looking at his new life as bonus minutes on the clock. And he wondered how much more time there was, for both of them.

~ ~ ~

Winter rolled in with all the rain, and none of the snow of Starsky's youth, and soon it was almost Christmas. It had been more than six months since the shooting, and Starsky was feeling stronger every day. Hutch had moved back into his own apartment when Starsky was able to take care of himself once more, but he still came over every evening after work to regale Starsky with absurd stories, trying to keep him part of their world. Hutch spent most of his free time still helping Starsky with chores, or physical therapy, or just hanging out and drinking beer and watching bad movies. Hutch seemed at peace these days. Starsky started to wonder if he'd merely imagined the words he'd heard in the ICU.

One rainy Saturday afternoon when Hutch was over, Starsky found himself examining the blond again, trying to read him. Hutch didn't look as if he were suffering from some unrequited love. In fact, he looked happier now than he had in a long time. He had recently shaved the cookie-duster, and when he looked up from his seat on the floor and gave Starsky a broad grin, years fell away from his face. He looked so happy....

 _'I promise to stop crying for the moon.'_

Starsky looked at his contented friend and felt a shock hit him, deep. _He promised. If I lived..._ An unpleasant, cold sensation replaced the shock, filling his gut. He was suddenly confused. Why this feeling of sick loss? They were fine, now, partners and friends—the best of friends. But something tugged at him, pulling, yearning. An ache in a place where there was no place. _Jesus. I know that feeling,_ he thought, understanding at last.

Hutch looked up from where he was setting up the Monopoly board, and paused when he saw Starsky's face.

"Buddy, are you okay? What's wrong?"

Starsky swallowed, "Hutch, I..." _I screwed up. God, I really, really screwed up. All this time, Hutch loving me, wanting me. And I couldn't, didn't want to see it. And now it's gone...._

Hutch got up from the floor and came to sit beside him. "Is it your chest? Can you breathe okay?"

No, Starsky couldn't breathe. The enormity of his mistake had squeezed the air from his lungs. He forced himself to pull a breath. He became aware that Hutch was stroking his chest firmly, chanting in his ear, "Slow, deep breaths. C'mon Starsky, nice and easy, nice and easy."

Starsky sagged back against the arm wrapped around his shoulders and Hutch took his weight, easing him against the sofa cushions.

"Feeling a little better?" Hutch asked, concern in his voice. His other hand was still rubbing Starsky's chest soothingly. He caught Hutch's hand.

"M'ok, it's okay now, it's stopped."

Hutch pulled back and patted his knee. "Scared me a little, there. Do you know what brought it on this time, buddy?" Starsky had been having these attacks occasionally since the shooting.

He found himself missing the warmth of Hutch's hand. "I don't know, Monopoly performance anxiety?" he joked weakly. "It's been a while, they're coming much further apart, now."

Hutch smiled, reassured, and gave him another pat, then returned to his task. Starsky observed him through lowered lids, outwardly calm but inwardly in turmoil. _Oh, babe, what do I do now?_ For once, he was grateful that Hutch couldn't always read his mind. _Gotta think about this._ He felt a profound regret, and not just because he might have missed his chance. Hutch had been hurting, all this time. It made his throat ache just to think about it. _I'll make it up to you, Hutch. Somehow._

~ ~ ~

Christmas eve arrived as scheduled. Starsky's apartment looked like it had been hit with a tinsel bomb. Hutch griped as expected, but his complaints lacked their usual acerbic force. He helped Starsky with most of the decorating, and even volunteered to pick up the tree.

They shared a gut-stuffing feast at the Dobeys' before returning to Starsky's to crack open a bottle of champagne. The partners were celebrating more than the holiday; at the beginning of the New Year, Starsky would be back on desk duty. His long rehabilitation was drawing to an end.

They both got a little silly, more on the vibe than on the alcohol. It had been one tough year and they were glad to see the end of it.

Per their tradition, they would each give the other two gifts to be opened on the eve, and save the rest for morning. Hutch's first present turned out to be a gag gift—a giant blow-up clown punching bag.

"Gotta get you back into fighting form," Hutch deadpanned.

Starsky made a face at him. He didn't relish the workout it would give his recently healed lungs blowing up the damned thing. From the look on Hutch's face, he was well aware of that fact.

Starsky handed Hutch his first gift and the blond opened it carefully, removing each piece of tape with precision until Starsky was fairly bouncing up and down in impatience.

"Jesus, Hutch, at this rate we'll miss Christmas altogether. Don'tcha know you're supposed to tear it open?"

Hutch was obviously enjoying his partner's torment. Finally, he got the paper off and opened the box. Inside was a black cashmere crew-neck sweater. Hutch sighed appreciatively as he ran his hands over the soft wool.

"This is beautiful, Starsk. Thanks."

"Don't thank me, I got it so I can see you in it."

Hutch looked up in surprise.

"Tired of seeing you in that ratty old gray one. Honestly, Hutch, don't you know we have an image to uphold?"

Hutch relaxed, "Gee, Mom, didn't mean to embarrass you. Your turn again," he nodded at the box near Starsky's knee.

Starsky tore into it and had it open in three seconds flat. He gasped as he pulled out a supple black leather holster. "Wow," he breathed.

Hutch was smiling at his obvious delight. "Your old one, well..." He cleared his throat. "It wasn't salvageable."

Starsky nodded knowingly. He had wondered what had happened to his old holster, and had guessed it was too bloodstained to use. His Beretta had been sitting in his nightstand drawer since that fateful day in May.

Starsky took a deep breath and said quietly, "Your turn, Hutch." He reached in his pocket and held out a small box.

Hutch looked at him quizzically as he took it. It was too small to be anything but jewelry of some kind. He unwrapped this box with rather less care than the first, Starsky noted. He watched Hutch's face as he lifted the lid. There, nestled inside on a piece of blue velvet was a tiny, round, golden moon on a chain.

Hutch lifted the chain and dropped the charm into his hand for a better look. Starsky watched as his expression changed from a puzzled smile to recognition, and then Hutch turned red, closing his hand hard over the gift and holding it in a trembling fist. He looked up at Starsky, and it wasn't joy that made his hand shake.

"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" he asked, his voice low and grinding. Starsky was taken aback. Of all the reactions he had imagined, rage wasn't one he had considered.

"It's not a joke, Hutch. D'ya really think I would do something like that?" Starsky's voice was uneven. He had been hoping against hope for the wordless understanding they so often shared, but the communications center appeared to be closed for the holidays.

Hutch dropped the pendant onto the coffee table with a clatter and lurched to his feet, putting some distance between them. He stood with his back to Starsky, his posture rigid.

"Hutch..." Starsky searched wildly for the words, but couldn't find them. _Do you still want me?_ He wanted to ask. The silence was unbearable, tense. Starsky stood and carefully approached his friend; he put his hand lightly on Hutch's shoulder but he pulled away. "Hutch, I..." Starsky's throat closed involuntarily.

Hutch shook his head and whispered hoarsely, "How did you know?"

"You told me. I heard you..."

Hutch rounded on him. "Heard me?"

"In the ICU. I wasn't all there, but I got some of it. I heard you say you wouldn't cry for the moon..." Starsky paused and swallowed, "I'm so sorry, Hutch. I didn't know. All this time..."

Hutch's face closed up, and he turned away again. "I can't...I have to go." He sounded panicked. Starsky watched helplessly as he shrugged hurriedly into his coat.

"Wait! Please, Hutch, don't leave it like this."

Hutch stopped, one hand on the door. Starsky held his breath.

~ ~ ~

Hutch's pulse was pounding in his skull as he struggled to make sense of his wildly conflicting emotions. Fear. Fear was foremost, so overwhelming he couldn't identify all that he feared. Losing Starsky? The unknown path they were treading? Or maybe he feared the pain he was anticipating when this all turned out to be a misunderstanding. Starsky couldn't possibly want what he wanted. And even if he did, Hutch had promised. He had made a life or death promise. To violate that promise would be to break a deal with God, or whoever had been merciful enough to return his dying friend to him. They could take him away again, just as easily.

He could feel Starsky burning with concern and anxiety behind him, but he couldn't turn back, couldn't even lift his hand from the doorknob. The fear was only part of the welter of emotions. There was also the hopeless need he still felt, in spite of everything. But there was anger, too—anger that Starsky should put him in this position just as he had finally attained a measure of peace on the subject. And below that was more fear, of digging up those feelings he had buried so ruthlessly, of exposing them to ridicule. _God, I'm just a fucking coward._

He heard Starsky take a breath and ask, "Am I too late, Hutch? I'm sorry, I gotta know..."

Hutch spoke, his head bowed, hand still on the door, "I don't...I'm...afraid." He listened carefully but Starsky didn't approach. He didn't relax his grip on the door.

"I'm scared, too, Hutch."

"I've wanted it for too long, tried to bury it. Tried to kill it." Hutch's voice was trembling. "I can't believe...you couldn't possibly—"

"I do, Hutch." Starsky's voice was level. "I know what I want. It took me a while, and I guess I had to die first, to figure it out." He saw Hutch's shoulders stiffen at that last. He hurried on, "But some things came real clear to me, afterward. What's really important. You."

"I can't just—"

"You ever gonna stop talking to that door, Hutch? I'm here. I'm right here."

Hutch turned his head at last to view his partner from the corner of his eye. Starsky was still standing in the same place, his hands raised beseechingly toward Hutch.

"Starsky." A breath, "I...I made a promise." He caught a small smile flashing across Starsky's face, and said, resentfully, "I'm dead serious. I promised, if you lived—"

"I'm not laughing, Hutch." Starsky approached him carefully until he stood an arm's distance apart.

Hutch looked his question, and waited.

"See, _I_ didn't promise anything." Starsky looked up hopefully. "What if I don't give you a choice?" Hutch stared into Starsky's eyes, amazed at what he saw there.

"I suppose..." He cleared his throat. "I suppose it wouldn't be my fault, then. If I didn't have a choice."

Starsky smiled, a slow, seductive smile full of promise. Hutch swallowed, hard. Then Starsky crossed those last inches until their faces were almost touching. "Been wanting to kiss you for the longest time, Blintz."

Hutch closed his eyes. _I'm dreaming. This isn't real._ Then he felt Starsky's lips on his, and nothing had ever felt _more_ real. He released the doorknob to sink his fingers into the hair at the back of Starsky's head, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. He opened his mouth and Starsky's tongue slipped teasingly past his lips. They tasted each other, and Hutch found himself smiling, his mouth curving against Starsky's. He broke off to run his cheek past Starsky's rough one, then pressed them together and panted gently in his partner's ear. "Love you," he whispered, barely audibly. Starsky's arms reached around to crush him close, his hard-on rubbing against Hutch's thigh.

"Oh, babe." Then Starsky was tugging him urgently toward the bedroom. Hutch stumbled after, his head spinning and his groin tight with anticipation. Starsky started stripping his clothing quickly, his eyes on Hutch's. Hutch followed suit, a little more hesitantly, but mesmerized as more of Starsky's body was revealed to him. He couldn't believe he had license to gaze all he wanted at that firm body, still a little too thin in recovery, but with taut muscle covering his trim form. The scars on his chest were still vivid against his white flesh, his summer tan having faded. Starsky was utterly uninhibited about the marks of his ordeal; just another reason for Hutch to admire his friend's indomitable spirit. Now he stood naked before him, and Hutch found more to admire. He hadn't had a chance to see Starsky aroused, that one night so many years ago. Starsky was beautiful. Hutch's heart was pounding as he looked at Starsky's hard cock.

"C'mon, Hutch. You're falling behind." Starsk pulled him toward the bed and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Hutch stood passively as Starsky ran his hands over his chest, stimulating his nipples. He felt like he couldn't quite draw in enough air.

Starsky pulled back and tilted his head. "Having second thoughts?" He looked suddenly uncertain.

"No, no!" Hutch hastened to assure him, and fumbled to remove his pants. Starsky's warm hands covered his.

"'S okay, Hutch, take your time. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled his gamine grin and continued to stroke exposed skin while Hutch struggled to get undressed. Finally, his pants were off, his own erection throbbing in eagerness against his belly. He caught Starsky's glance as he looked down at Hutch, and reddened at the scrutiny.

"Some monster," Starsky quipped, but his eyes were avid, and Hutch's heart trip-hammered. He reached out to pull Starsky toward him for another kiss. The kissing was good; it helped to ease the awkwardness. It wasn't that different from any other kiss he had shared, except no kiss had ever aroused him this much. No kiss had ever made him feel as if his bones were melting into their constituent atoms. Then Starsky slid his hands down Hutch's back to grab his ass and pull him close, their hard cocks pressed tight against each other, and Hutch groaned into Starsky's mouth. They tumbled awkwardly onto the bed, trying desperately to keep contact all along their bodies, then lay facing each other, hands caressing madly on heated skin.

"Babe, want you so bad," Starsky whispered in a husky tone that Hutch had only ever heard once before. It took a while for the meaning to catch up to the reaction the words prompted. Then Hutch pulled back and looked questioningly at Starsky.

His deep blue eyes were hazy with outright lust, but his meaning was clear to Hutch. _Wants to fuck me._ A note, pure and clean, struck through his body in response. _I want him to. God, how I want him to._ The deeper questions of what it would mean, how it would affect him, were pushed aside by the overriding desire he felt at Starsky's words. A need to have him, to be taken by Starsky, possessed by him, once and for all. He held Starsky's eye, and nodded.

Starsky looked as if he had been pole-axed, and then he lunged forward to kiss Hutch again, his lips and tongue demanding, insistent. Hutch gave back as good as he got, his whole body reacting to the kiss.

Then Starsky pulled back again and pushed gently on Hutch's shoulder to roll him onto his stomach. Unaccountably, Hutch stiffened and resisted. Starsky applied more pressure and Hutch pulled back. Confused, Starsky stared into his partner's face. Hutch's eyes had the same expression they'd held at the front door, a mixture of fear and yearning that almost stopped his heart.

Starsky leaned in and said thickly, "What if I don't give you a choice?" He heard Hutch moan almost soundlessly, and he lifted his lips in a wicked grin, and then he slung his leg around Hutch's torso. The struggle soon escalated into an all-out wrestling match as they panted and sweated, limbs wrapped around each other and hard-ons clashing.

"Dammit, Hutch," Starsky grunted, trying to gain purchase on his big, sweat-slicked partner. Hutch's lips were now pulled back in an almost-snarl, but the passion was there in his blue eyes. Starsky's leaned forward to nip his neck, then grabbed a fistful of Hutch's hair and hauled his face close, taking his partner in a forceful kiss. They breathed into each other's mouths as they continued to pant and struggle, then Starsky managed to capture Hutch's wrist and pull it behind his back. Hutch let out a muffled cry and froze.

They trembled on the cusp, and then Starsky slowly, deliberately applied pressure on the arm until the blond was forced to his belly. Starsky consolidated his advantage by immediately throwing his leg over the bottom of Hutch's thighs. The long body beneath him was still rigid as if tensed for further resistance. Starsky bent his head low over Hutch's shoulder and breathed one word into his ear, " _Give_."

Hutch shuddered when the whispered word hit him. And then he slumped, his entire body relaxing under Starsky's. He pushed his face into the pillow. _Oh, God, it's really going to happen._ There was no turning back, now. He felt himself start to tremble minutely. A gentle hand stroked along his spine, petting him, soothing him, while Starsky continued to whisper in his ear.

"Relax. Just relax. Please, babe."

Hutch nodded, his face still turned into the pillow to hide his flush; but he knew all his skin was burning with it. The hand continued its soothing caress, and then slipped down to palm his ass, rubbing in circles before sliding between his cheeks. Hutch shuddered again, this time with more than fear, as he felt a finger circle his anus.

Starsky's voice continued, low and sultry in his ear, "Gonna be mine, Hutch." He rolled the rest of the way off of Hutch to gently kiss his temple. Hutch forced himself to turn his head and meet his partner's eyes. What he saw blew him away. _Love._

Starsky reacted to the uncertainty on Hutch's face. "Oh, babe. Don't you know? Love you so much. Just never was much good at saying it."

"You don't...I don't know. It's just been a long year, Starsk." Hutch's voice was low and still uncertain.

Fiercely, "Don't ever doubt it, Hutch. Never been anyone who means as much to me." He stroked his hand through the blond hair, resting it on his neck to pull Hutch in for another kiss.

Hutch went willingly to his lips, knowing it would be his last chance for a while. Finally, Starsky released him and they shared a look, oddly similar to the glance they always exchanged before going into danger. _And this is dangerous. Dangerous, but so hot._ Hutch couldn't remember ever being this excited and eager and afraid. Maybe he had felt like this his first time, felt this burning in the pit of his stomach as if he were about to get caught doing something bad. His cock twitched and he broke the glance, turning his head and wrapping his arms around the pillow, holding it tight.

Hutch heard Starsky leave the bed and then return. There was a dribble of something cold on his rear; he didn't want to think about what it was. Then Starsky's hand was there as he remembered it from that first night. It was sliding between his cheeks, and then a long finger was at his anus, stroking and circling.

He tensed involuntarily, and heard Starsky whisper something but he couldn't make it out. He was trembling again, the weird combination of fear and excitement making his body shake. He wasn't even sure what he was afraid of. This was Starsky, his best friend. He would never hurt him. But the fear was more primal than that; it came from a place he couldn't even reach. The finger was massaging him, trying to loosen him, but failing.

Starsky leaned over him and said, "Babe, please, you have to try..." That familiar voice did what nothing else could. He took a deep breath and obeyed, focusing hard on relaxing the lower half of his body. He was rewarded when the stroking finger slipped past his defenses and slid into him.

He groaned in pleasure, his voice muffled by the pillow. Such a tiny thing, but the sensation was incredible as the finger started to move in and out, slowly accustoming his body to the invasion. A thousand nerve endings hummed to the touch. The intruder withdrew momentarily and then re-entered, stroking him, filling him, going deeper still, and a shock ran through him as it touched his prostate. The charge was almost a delayed reaction to the pressure, as if the pleasure started somewhere that wasn't even part of his body before traveling up his spine. He moaned low and the finger repeated the motion. He had never felt anything like it in his life.

He found himself squirming backward, and he heard Starsky's breathless laugh. Hutch was momentarily embarrassed but the pleasure soon overrode the emotion. He didn't care. _This is going to work,_ he thought, excitement filling him anew. Then another finger joined the first, and he froze. Starsky gave him time to adjust, and soon he was back to squirming. He had to turn his face from the pillow to breathe.

"God," he groaned, and prayed for it to continue. "More," he begged, and Starsky obliged him, finger fucking him until he couldn't control his movements or his mouth, which uttered pleas and curses indiscriminately.

Starsky pulled back, and Hutch heard him prepare himself with the lube. He tugged up on Hutch's hip and Hutch raised himself to accept a pillow placed under his belly. The new position, his ass in the air, completely exposed, brought home the reality of what was about to happen.

"Gonna have you now, Hutch," Starsky confirmed, and Hutch tensed. He felt Starsky's hand return to his back, stroking comfortingly. "Gotta know that you're with me on this, babe." Starsky murmured.

 _No, don't ask. God, just..._ "Do it." Hutch said, his voice guttural and unfamiliar. Then Starsky's warm, slick cockhead was pressed against his opening, and he shuddered. He started gasping a little, trying desperately to control his impulse to scramble away. His whole body shook with the desire to take flight.

But Starsky didn't give him the chance. With a strong motion he pushed hard past Hutch's tight ring of muscle, and Hutch clenched his jaw to stifle a cry. The pain was the least of it. Starsky was inside him. After a thousand dreams and fantasies, his partner was finally inside him, and nothing he had dreamt of had prepared him for what it would do to him. To feel that thickness spreading him open, taking him. He whimpered, overwhelmed.

Starsky had frozen after the initial breach, and Hutch heard him gasping behind him, "Too tight, God." Hutch struggled to relax, knowing he was causing them both pain. _Want this, want him,_ he tried to convince his contrary body.

Then Starsky said softly, "Oh, babe," and there was defeat in his voice. Was he going to pull out, give up? Hutch couldn't stand the thought and, with a mighty effort, he went limp, accepting it, accepting his friend inside him.

Starsky cried out when the pressure eased. He panted for a moment, and then pulled back a little before pushing in deeper. Hutch felt the thick shaft claim more of him, and he groaned.

"Ohhhh, God." _Starsky is taking me._ He moaned again, his voice deep and throaty, "Ohhhhh." Starsky responded by thrusting deeper, then deeper still, his hands firm on Hutch's hips. Then he hit Hutch's prostate, and Hutch's muscles clenched as pleasure shot hot threads through his body. He gasped, and Starsky started moving in and out of him, thrusting against the spot on every pass.

"Oh God, oh God," Hutch cried out, unable to believe what was happening to him. He reared up on his hands, pushing back, wanting more of this, more of Starsky's cock inside him, pleasuring him.

Starsky gasped, "Jesus!" and closed his hands even tighter on Hutch's hips, pulling him hard as he shoved his cock into Hutch's warmth. He started grunting low on every thrust. He was lost, mad with it, wanting to fuck Hutch so hard that he would be indelibly marked. _Mine._ He thrust harder still, the sounds Hutch was making driving him into a frenzy. "So hot and tight," he pleaded, "Say you like it; God, Hutch."

"Your cock," he heard Hutch moan, "Love it...." He groaned, "So good..."

Starsky growled and thrust powerfully, then reached low and caught Hutch's erection in a firm grip. Hutch cried out, begging for release, and Starsky pumped him in time with his hips, squeezing his eyes shut as the pleasure rushed through him.

"GOD, Hutch! Hutch!"

Hutch answered with a low sound that seemed to go on forever, then his cock was pulsing in Starsky's hand, his muscles convulsing hard around Starsky. Starsky lost it, pushing himself as deeply as he could inside of Hutch as his balls drew up and his cock erupted. "Ahhhhh," he cried out, and his body tightened in a shuddering orgasm, emptying himself into Hutch's body.

"Jesus," he said, his voice high with disbelief. His heart was pounding against the wall of his chest as if it wanted to jump clear out. He panted, holding still, not wanting to move ever again. He leaned low over Hutch's back, one hand still on his cock. He brought the other around to wrap under Hutch's chest, and rested his cheek on Hutch's back. "Jesus," he repeated softly. Hutch was trembling beneath him, obviously as shaken as he by what they had just experienced. Starsky planted a kiss on his partner's back, and then slowly eased out of Hutch. He heard him groan as the softened cock left his body. Hutch collapsed to the bed, still shaking.

Starsky rolled to the side and pulled on the sheet to free a corner. He cleaned off his hand and then ran a palm up and down Hutch's back. "Don't move," he whispered, and then hauled himself off the bed to grab some damp towels.

Hutch took Starsky's advice and lay there. It seemed only reasonable since he would probably be paralyzed for the rest of his life. He heard Starsky return, and felt a warm, damp cloth cleaning him. That was nice, he could just lie here, and be cleaned, and maybe someone would bring him food once in a while.

"How do you feel?" Starsky asked, sounding a little embarrassed. Well, he could fix that.

"How do you think? I feel like I've been hit by a train," Hutch paused the necessary instant, "A Love Train."

Starsky laughed, and just like that, the awkwardness passed. Hutch expended the very last vestiges of energy he possessed in order to roll over onto his side and face his partner.

"How do _you_ feel?" Hutch asked, smiling. God, he might never stop smiling.

Starsky looked down. "Like I wish I could give you the moon."

Hutch laughed as Starsky's face reflected a sudden realization of what he'd just said. Then Starsky bounded off the bed to return a minute later, the golden sphere dangling from his hand. Hutch struggled to sit up, and then ducked his head so Starsky could put it on him.

The tiny moon rested on his sternum—cold, but warming quickly to his body. "Technically, you know, I gave _you_ the moon tonight," Hutch grinned, and was delighted when Starsky blushed.

"No joke, Hutch, I never...felt anything like that before in my life."

Hutch could see that Starsky wanted some reassurances. How strange to see this side of his partner. He wondered if Starsky needed that with everyone he made love to, or if he was a special case.

"Me neither, Starsk. And not just because I've never...done that before. I've never felt this way with anyone." It was Hutch's turn to feel embarrassed. He knew Starsky generally liked to avoid soapy scenes. But right now, he thought he would burst with soap. He had soap coming out of his ears. "Gimme that washcloth, would you?" he asked, gruffly, then used it to clean off his front. "Christ, we made a mess."

Starsky grinned at him knowingly. It was going to be difficult, being with someone who knew him so goddamn well. Right now Hutch felt as if his marshmallow insides had never been more obvious to his friend. "You still owe me a moon, partner," he growled, palming his partner's ass suggestively.

Starsky smiled in promise. "You know, Hutch, I read that story, and there's a happy ending..."

"Yeah? I don't remember. I know the Jester has the goldsmith make her a moon, but then everyone freaks because what will she think when the real moon rises again?"

"Uh huh. So the Jester asks the Princess, 'What will people do without the moon, now that you have it around your neck?' and she says, 'That's easy, silly, it grows back, like when I lose a tooth.'"

"A new one? Every night?" Hutch smiled, and Starsky reached out to run a hand down his face.

"Every night, Hutch," Starsky said, his voice certain, "Many moons."

Hutch closed his eyes, "I kind of like the sound of that."

 

 _Finis._

 

November, 2004

San Francisco

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> apologies to Many Moons by James Thurber


End file.
